


Aching Memories, Bloody Fists

by PontifexxMaximus (WibblyWobbly_TimeyWimey)



Series: Beau Week 2019 [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Beau backstory I guess, Beau the Monk, Beau typical shitty parents, Beau's parents are horrible, Character Study, Gaslighting, Homophobia, I actually know nothing about the specifics of fighting and sand bags so don't roast me, I wrote how her parents sold her to the cobalt soul so be prepared to really hate these parents, SPOILERS for Beau's backstory ofc, The Cobalt Soul, Violence, arriving at the cobalt soul, but nothing really gritty, child abuse basically but not physically, fistfighting bc it is a Beau fic, lesbophobia i guess, of sorts, this sounds super angsty but I'd like to think it's actually sort of powerful and uplifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 13:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WibblyWobbly_TimeyWimey/pseuds/PontifexxMaximus
Summary: Beau Week 2019, Day Two: Brawl/LearningWhen she’d been informed of the duality of The Cobalt Soul – fighting and learning – she’d been her usual cocky self. Fighting? No problem, she’d been fighting since before she could walk. If anyone could throw a mean punch, it was Beauregard Lionett. Well. Maybe just Beauregard. Beau, she supposed. Lionett… Well, when your own dad gets you abducted, basically sells you off to a monastery, is he really even your dad? Is that even your family anymore?orThe story of how Beau's parents sold her to a monastery, and how that was, surprisingly, not the worst thing they'd ever done to her.





	Aching Memories, Bloody Fists

When Beau had arrived at The Cobalt Soul during the night, she had tried to keep her head held high, make the best of it.

When she’d been informed of the duality of The Cobalt Soul – fighting and learning – she’d been her usual cocky self. Fighting? No problem, she’d been fighting since before she could walk. If anyone could throw a mean punch, it was Beauregard Lionett. Well. Maybe just Beauregard. Beau, she supposed. She probably didn’t have to be Beauregard here, it didn’t sound very badass, and Lionett… Well, when your own dad gets you abducted, basically sells you off to a monastery, is he really even your dad? Is that even your family anymore? She knew they didn’t want her, but she hadn’t considered the implications.

 

Her parents had given up. They had actually, finally, given up. It was a bittersweet victory, not one she had expected. They’d put up with so much shit, she’d put up with so much shit, they’d been living in a state of begrudgingly accepting each other for the last few years, but she hadn’t actually thought of them disowning her. Sure, she’d thought of disowning _them_. Of leaving them to rot and never coming back. But this clear proof that her parents _really didn’t want her_. The fact that they’d rather have no child than have Beauregard. That was an unexpected blow.

And she was so mad at herself for being sad, for being hurt. She didn’t owe them any sadness, and they didn’t deserve her tears. Why was she surprised? She’d been trying to make them break for years, pushing them right to the edge, forcing them to finally snap and just _tell_ her, just _tell_ her the truth, no wrapping it up in niceties and manners, but outright tell her, that they didn’t want her, that they’d never wanted her.

She didn’t want to hear that she was a failure or disappointing or abrasive, they’d been holding that over her for her entire life, skirting around the real reason she was never good enough. Fuck, they couldn’t even give her that. They couldn’t look her in the face and tell her the truth. Instead, they had her abducted in the middle of the night as if they were shady thieves’ guild members. For fucks sake, her literal criminal friends wouldn’t have treated her like that.

 

She lifted her head, scanning her new room for something, anything to punch. There was the pillow, but punching pillows was not satisfying enough. She could punch the cold, hard stone-wall, but she’d break her hand. Finding no better option, she dragged the wickerwork chair from the desk across the gray stone floor, a grating sound making her grind her teeth and roll her shoulders. It was no good height for a punch, but a kick maybe?

 

_CRASH_

 

The satisfying crunch of the seat crumbling beneath her was almost enough to sate her violent urges.

 

 

Flashes of her father’s face in her mind. It had been 3 o’clock in the night, and she’d been in the middle of finishing a deal. Her parents had left that morning to visit an important new business connection, so she was sure, completely sure, that they’d be long gone and that it was the best time to sneak out the latest batch of wine that she had sold.

When she saw her parents, she barely understood what was happening. Three, tall people in monastic robes had walked in the door in the middle of her deal – sure, a bit weird, but maybe they were associated with her business partner. Until she saw her dad stepping into the room, her mother standing a step back from him, in the corner, with a look of steel that somehow both said, “this isn’t my fault” and “this is your own fault” at the same time, removing her own blame as if she was just an unwilling pawn, following the poor, un-avoidable circumstances.

Beauregard had been so caught off guard, she didn’t even have a chance to react when two of the monks stepped forward and each grabbed one of her arms, her business-contact quickly sliding out of the wine cellar, disappearing (she couldn’t blame them, really).

And yet, she still didn’t understand what was happening, didn’t even think that her parents could be… dispersing of her. She barely remembered her father’s words, which was so _stupid_ now. How could she forget something so monumental? How could she just block out the last words her father told her?

She only remembered his face; cold, hard. He looked as if he was looking at a bad batch of grapes, like a slight annoyance of being brought bad produce, but alas, he would throw it out and move on to the next batch. She knew that exact face, and that was the one he was giving her. She was moldy grapes, and that’s all she’d ever been to him, she _knew_ it.

He might never have said it, but she knew deep in her gut that she was nothing else but a bad seed. He’d said some proper bullshit, laced in manners and niceties, the distant way of talking he had, completely un-familiarized. Some bullshit about understanding Beauregard’s message, that she didn’t want to be a Lady, so now she didn’t have to. But just, for once behave properly Beauregard. Don’t be another problem for these nice monks.

 

And her mother… Her seemingly timid mother, but Beauregard knew better. She knew the ice-cold anger, the air of distance her mother always carried with her, and this time was no different. Beauregard could already see how she’d rationalized, shifted the blame in her head. It wasn’t her fault that her daughter was a bad batch, and they’d tried all they could to mold her into a proper Lady, and it wasn’t working, so she was just doing what you’d otherwise do with a bad batch. Beauregard was not fruitful, there was no point in having her as a daughter.

Beauregard did remember her mother’s words. Her quiet, disarming sigh.

“Beauregard. Honey. You’re never going to learn to wear a dress properly, you’re never going to stop getting in these ridiculous fights, and darling. You’re never going to marry a good, respectable man. I suspect that you’ll never marry a man at all.” She’d winced at those words. Maybe, just maybe, she was a, a lesbian, she supposed, but she barely knew, and she hadn’t thought her parents knew. And she knew how they felt, but… There’d always been a quiet hope she supposed. But her mother continued, unaffected.

“Darling, let’s be realistic. If you are a ‘lesbian’, well…” she’d put stupid air quotes around the word lesbian, as if it was barely a word, “the chances of you ever producing a _proper_ heir for the family and our business is slim. Sure, there are women out there that you’d technically be able to reproduce with, but that would still leave the heir of our business with two mothers, and you know, honey, that is no proper way to run a business. What would people think?”

She really wished she’d remembered her father’s words and not her mother’s, because her mother’s words? They hurt so much more.

 

 

_CRUNCH_

 

 

Another kick to the pathetic chair. She wished that chair was a face that she could stomp on, grind into the ground. Feelings were such bullshit. Beau was so tired of _feeling_ all the damn time. She’d cried so many tears, gotten hopeful so many times, her entire life had been controlled by damn feelings.

 

Another _CRASH_ , followed by two, strong _KNOCK, KNOCKs_. The crash was from the chair, but the knocks were from the door. Beauregard extracted her foot from the chair, squaring her shoulders, raising her chin in the direction of the door.

“Uh, yea, come in,” she yelled, leveling her voice to keep out those pesky feelings.

A delicate-looking elven man stepped inside. She remembered his face right away – he’d been the one her father had shook hands with, exchanging the pouch of gold (she really hoped it was gold, that she was at least materially worth something).

 

She squared her jaw. “What do you want?”

 

“Zeenoth. Archivist Zeenoth. I will be overlooking your training,” his gaze travelled over her, and she could almost see the calculations in his head, how he was taking in the entire room and her physique as well as her mood. “I see the chair is an offending item?”, he asked, and she already hated his snotty, condescending voice. So, this was the replacement for her father then. Her new warden, another man to look down upon her and judge her actions.

 

“That wicker is real shit. Just breaks straight through,” Beau answered, curling her hands into fists at her side. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to escape Zeenoth’s perceptive eyes, and Beau felt like a child, stubborn and angry.

 

“Well, you parents might not have had any use or place for your anger, but you’ll find that The Cobalt Soul is quite different,” Zeenoth told her.

 

“Yea, uh, the fighting, punching the shit out of people, you guys told me about that in that lovely nighttime cart-ride,” her words dripped of sarcasm, her face locked in a hard expression, recalling how they’d waited an entire hour before removing the constraints around her arms, apparently not trusting her not to fight or flight (they’d probably been right not to trust her).

 

“Yes, well, ‘the fighting’,” his words were so condescending, Beau could straight up smack him, “is a practiced artform. We expect obedience and training. But yes, crudely put, ‘punching the shit out of people’. I suspect you could use some of that now, so if you’d be so nice as to follow along…”, he stepped to the side, an arm inviting her to exit the cold room.

 

She narrowed her eyes. That was it? Really? He thought she might need to punch people, so he was taking her to… punch people? Well, she supposed she could roll with that.

Beauregard stepped out of the door and followed the Archivist, still slightly mistrusting. Her father had used this technique many times. Telling her what she wanted to hear, and when they’d actually arrive it was something completely different. He was probably gonna lead her to that boring library she’d seen on the way in or sit her down for a lecture on how to tie your monk robes or some shit.

 

Archivist Zeenoth lead her down a long hallway, winding staircases, down and down, until the windows disappeared, and oil lamps were the only sign of light. He stopped in front of a big double-door, opened them with a flourish, and Beau couldn’t even contain her gaping.

She had been right, they’d moved down to the basement. But the room in front of her was big, really big, and there was at least another story before the loft, so the natural light was flooding in through highly-placed windows. It was a training court like no other she’d ever seen before. Light, brown sand was coating the ground, a blanket for the monks being thrown half-way across the room with the flick of an arm. There was an area dedicated to sandbags, not the pathetic ones that her previously-local dive bar had, but the proper ones, of different hardness, the ones where you could _really_ learn to throw a punch. It was basically paradise for anyone who cared about throwing fists and throwing them well.

She turned back to Archivist Zeenoth, not really knowing what she was expecting from him. He dropped his bag and began rummaging through it. She could see deep blue and turquoise fabric, as he pulled out a stack of clothing.

 

“These are your monastic robes. The Cobalt Soul expects you to bear them with pride. Now, please, go get dressed, I’m tired of looking at that angry face. There are better places to put your anger.”

 

The clothes, _robes_ , were showed into her hands, and her eyesight followed the Archivist’s finger finding a door apparently leading to some kind of changing rooms.

 

She shot Zeenoth an unsure look. Sure, the monks had said that they practiced the noble art of yada-yada, some fight-y thing, but she hadn’t really expected it to be this… This real. The quick acceptance of her anger, as if it was an expected thing, that you could turn into things, turn into fighting, instead of it just being something she should hide under makeup and pretty dresses. She didn’t give him an answer, couldn’t find any words that sounded un-caring and breezy enough. She simply followed his finger, into the room, changing into the, admittedly pretty badass, robes and then returned to the training grounds. Archivist Zeenoth was gone, but an older monk was apparently waiting for her, introducing herself as Ancreta, Beauregard’s temporary trainer until they got a feeling for her talent and assigned her a proper trainer.

 

Ancreta led Beau through the basic motions. Beauregard thought she knew what there was to know about fighting, and she’d hate to admit it, but that Zeenoth guy had been right. It really _was_ an artform. Sure, she knew how to throw a grown man to the floor, but did she know how to do it efficiently, without dislocating her shoulder? Ancreta sure knew how.

 

They squared up against each other. Beau would have been mad at how Ancreta was obviously going easy on her, if she wasn’t having so much damn fun.

Beauregard’s fist connected with Ancreta’s jaw with a satisfying crunch. Ancreta shot her a crooked smile, spitting out a mouthful of blood on the floor, returning with a punch of her own, placed _just so_ between Beauregard’s ribs in a way that stole her air and stole her breath all the same. The beauty of the fight, the blood and the adrenaline running through her ears, drowning out all of the thoughts, her parent’s voices telling her that she just wasn’t enough. She even lost her hearing for a split-second, when she lunched forward, trying to reciprocate the rib-punch, and Ancreta looped an arm under her stomach, strong arms lifting her from the ground to _SLAM_ her back into the ground, her back aching so much, but so _good_. She lost herself in the fight. In the blood, and the violence, and the _art_.

 

 

Later that evening, when she sat on her bed, tending her new bruises, washing the blood and wrapping her shoulder, she didn’t think about her parents. She did not think about the look in her mother’s eyes, or the disappointment in her father’s voice. She did not think about how she would never be enough for them, and how she was never gonna marry the _right_ person.

She thought about techniques. About Ancreta’s words and promises. A strike so precise, your opponent would be left completely stunned. Another, so intricate, your opponent would have no choice but to speak the truth and only the truth. The promises of increased speed, of magical fights, of being able to fight any enemy with her body, and her body only. She even thought a bit about monastic values. She’d been given a nice little book, and most of it was a joke really. The same game, just a new set of manners, a new way to behave. But there was another promise. If she could sit still (relatively), listen (relatively), learn (some), she’d also learn how to fight. She’d have a home. Maybe not a nice one, but a home that at least kind of wanted her, a home that praised her physical abilities, told her that though incredibly unrefined, her power was breathtaking. Beauregard Lionett. No, just Beauregard. Beauregard, powerful, breathtaking.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, that's 2/7! I wrote both the first and the second day today because I didn't think I was gonna participate, since I haven't written proper fanfiction since, like, 2014.
> 
> I don't know if I'll be able to finish them all (uni+travelling, it's a busy life), but I'll at least try. Until then, I hope you enjoy! Comments and kudos and greatly appreciated.
> 
> Also, once again, English isn't my first language and I have no beta, so bear with me.


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